


flew in already broken

by RedBlackandBold



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Eileen is tired of watching people die, Friendship, Gen, Gil doesn't wanna be here, Pre-Canon, naturally they get on just fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 21:19:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17050751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedBlackandBold/pseuds/RedBlackandBold
Summary: A strange new soul comes to town, in between hunts. Eileen looks on.





	flew in already broken

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this sitting in my drive forever, and it's a lot shorter than I intended it to be, but I'm looking to continue it (eventually). Gilbert doesn't get enough love, nowadays, so I'm here to help fix that.

He comes amongst the first hoards of them, all desperate strangers looking for impossible cures. But he is not bright eyed and hopeful like the others; his melancholy demeanour fits right in with the rest of Yharnam. Eileen watches him buy bread and thinks, lords, why did he doom himself as he did? He'll be dead before the next hunt. He'll be dead before the next week.

But somehow he perseveres, longer than her skepticism does. His tired, dull eyes hide something keen and she wonders if he knew something was off when he passed through the front gates. He is polite to a fault, but he keeps his distance. Never more than a half smile and bitter laugh.

\---

It's when he lingers at the Vicar's garden does she realise his seclusion is not of suspicion, but of the assuredness of his tragedy. She’s met folks like him before; wherever he may go, death seems to follow. She knows his type. She is his type. Any Yharnamite could say the same.

Out of pity she thought she didn't have, she offers him a hand, to lead him to their world.

\---

"It seems as though you'll be staying for a while," she remarks as she passes him at the market.

"So it does, though I wish it were not so," he breathes, then catches himself. "I hold nothing against Yharnam. I... believed my ailment was not... I believed I was not too far gone, but I was unlucky."

He dared to hope he could return home, as they all had, once. He'd fit right in with the rest of them, truly. "There's a small house for sale, in the mid city. Near a clinic," she says, trying to make eye contact. His gaze is fixed at his feet. "It's got a lovely little garden." The grip he held fast on his cane tightens. "Just in case." Eileen inclines her head and continues on her way, past the wilted orchids the previous owner had accepted as gifts from the Vicar.

\---

He sets up shop in the market not long after. He sells metal jewellery, mostly — pendants engraved with precise and delicate filigree — but what catches her eye are the ornamental daggers. She picks one up as he sells something ingrained with garnets to one of the women from down the way. Out of curiosity, she gives it a tentative swing. The balance of it is too perfect to truly be meant for decoration. Surreptitiously, she lets her eyes wander to watch his hands.

Scars upon scars litter his fingers, and she suspected if he were to turn his hand, his palm would look much the same. The cuts aren’t deep, and they aren’t straight and neat. There is no stretch to make comparisons between his hands and the scars littering the craftsman of the Church.

What was a seasoned weaponsmith doing in Yharnam? With the skill he had, he could have easily made enough money to afford a doctor’s care. Yet, here he was, fighting for his life with the rest of them.

As if on cue, he explodes into a nasty coughing fit in the midst of bartering. The startled woman offers him a handkerchief, but he politely denies and pulls one of his own from his pocket. Eileen doesn’t have to venture to guess that it’s speckled in red and brown; the smell of iron in the air is enough. Consumption, just like half of the doomed souls that wandered through Yharnam’s gates. She wonders if she could be successful in convincing him to find some far off sanatorium in the country, and seek a peaceful death. He looked sensible. Not desperate, yet. Perhaps he would listen to reason, unlike the rest.

As money passes between hands, he glances away, towards midtown. Just for a moment, she catches his face fall into something just short of wistful as his eyes move from a nondescript street to a florist’s booth.

Perhaps not, then.

\---

She isn’t surprised when that little house on the corner suddenly shows signs of life, barely a few weeks later, nor is she surprised when the healing church takes notice of its new occupant’s particular skill set. She knows the healing church is in dire need of weaponsmith’s of the man’s calibre -- especially as each successive hunt chips away at what little manpower they have left. His craftsmanship could have been the only reason why anyone in Yharnam was tolerant of letting an outsider move into the centre of town. She still hears the whispers, degrading and suspicious. As she always has, she pays them no mind.

When the hunt comes, she knows he’ll prove himself proper -- and it’ll cost him what little he has left. She’s sure of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to everyone else who fell in love with this super minor NPC, I see u
> 
> You can find me on tumblr and pillowfort at iceskatingmobsters!


End file.
